


It Started as a Joke

by Whyndancer, Yatzuaka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Proposal, Chef!Loki, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Scott Lang saves Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Fic, Thanksgiving in London
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whyndancer/pseuds/Whyndancer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzuaka/pseuds/Yatzuaka
Summary: Alone and *unloved*, Darcy tries to navigate her first thanksgiving in a foreign country.  Thankfully, someone special notices her unhappiness, and surprises ensue.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Loki
Comments: 21
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We were talking about Thanksgiving leftovers, and that led to an "imagine your OTP" moment, that got bigger and bigger and we realized it would fit in perfectly with an au snippet I did a couple of months back as part of a collection of au oneshots - [How to (not) burn water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286852/chapters/48811541)  
> And then she started writing it, and dragged me along for the ride. This whole thing is her fault. 
> 
> Y: You know what? It never would have happened without Whyndancer's insane Turkey Gumbo recipe. I started salivating. No lie. And then I started writing and maybe it's my fault. But it's totally *hers* too!

It started out, like 90% of the human race's truly amazing achievements, as a joke.

* * *

***

She'd definitely known that it was going to be challenging when she moved here. There had been pages, _plural_ , dedicated to the cons of this move. 

Darcy had thought that there was no scenario for which she was unprepared. So, she sucked at cooking. She'd been well aware of that fact for years. But the vicious stab of homesickness wasn't something that could be prepared for, more's the pity. That coupled with a distinct lack of her particular brand of comfort foods was enough to drive even the most prepared, pragmatic individual to heretofore unknown depths of desperation, such as attempting to cook for herself - seriously, for real - for the first time in her adult life. Repeatedly. Despite her obvious failures. 

At least her not-so-secret shame had resulted in the best thing that’s happened to her since she'd first stepped off the plane. Loki. Remarkable and completely singular Loki. Loki who cooked. Loki who was teaching her to not burn any scrap of food in a five foot radius. Her friend. Definitely her best friend in England. Jane was still her best friend as a whole, _internationally_ so to speak, but Loki was special to her. 

In any case, Loki was not only a spectacular looking human, once you got over the whole gorgeous and jaded thing, he was a spectacular human in general. It was a shame that they were such good friends, really. Darcy had a hunch he'd be spectacular in bed, but she'd be fucked if it got awkward between them. She contented herself with secretly lusting after him, but tried not to let it affect their relationship. 

She'd made a few London friends, but none of them made profiteroles, so… he was firmly out of the running as potential date material, and she tried not to let it bother her overmuch. So what if she occasionally daydreamed about cuddling up with him in front of a fire, or kissing the crinkles of his eyes when he smiled. It’s not like she was doodling his name surrounded by hearts on her notes. Much. Because seriously, his profiteroles were really to die for. 

Back to being homesick. She'd thought that she'd had it under control. Until social media turned into a thanksgiving recipe exchange. Faced with a bombardment of mashed versus scalloped potatoes, sweet potato casserole versus sweet potato pie, and the rest of the coma-inducing, fall-themed cornucopia of indigestion related nightmares, of course Darcy longed for her homeland.

She could barely handle braising chicken thighs in wine and herbs. There was no way she could manage roasting a turkey. Maybe next year, she decided, pretending that it didn't hurt. Just a little. 

Still her thoughts lingered on those succulent daydreams of crispy, crackling perfectly browned skin and juicy tender meat smothered in flavorful, velvety gravy; a Norman Rockwell fantasy she thinks her mother's almost forgotten culinary delights conjure. 

Maybe she's homesick. Like an actual illness. She longs for the idealized home she doesn't even remember clearly, which brings on the guilt, and sometimes the waterworks, usually accompanied by huge gulping sobs. Darcy's become quite adept at hiding herself away in a bathroom before she loses control. She's less and less convinced that she's made the right choice coming here. 

Her boss looked at her weird when she requested to have the fourth Thursday and Friday in November off. Sure, Thanksgiving wasn't something Brits celebrated, but she was an American and something inside her rebelled at the thought of having to work on those days. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd do with herself those four days she had off, but did know it wouldn't be working, and that was certainly better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

* * *

***

Something was wrong with Darcy. She was making a valiant effort to hide it, and he rather thought she had most of their friends and acquaintances convinced that she was perfectly fine, but he'd been spending, well, not quite _all_ , but certainly _most_ of his free time with her lately, and he knew her moods nearly as well as he knew his own by this point. Maybe better. He had been informed on more than one occasion that he was actually rather terrible at the whole self-awareness thing. His therapist had suggested that spending so much time growing up swinging between desperately trying to gain his father's approval and acting as a buffer between his father and brother’s… _volatile_ personalities had made it difficult to identify and acknowledge his own feelings and desires. Regardless, since he’d met her Darcy had swiftly become one of the most important people in his life - he laughed more with her than anyone he’d ever met, she kept him from taking himself too seriously and her smile made him feel like he ruled the world. But that smile had been brittle recently and it hurt to see it like that. But he couldn’t think what the problem might be and so had no idea how to help, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d asked, of course, but she’d given him the same hollow “I’m fine” that she gave everyone who’d asked and he didn’t dare pry too hard.

The answer finally came to him at work. He’d begun bringing Darcy’s mother’s recipe book into the test kitchen to work on the more cryptic entries some time ago- she’d agreed to let him write some of them up for the magazine in exchange for the cooking lessons and helping her parse her mother’s recipes. Her mother had written up the recipes more as notes to herself than as proper instructions on how to prepare each dish, and actually recreating them was a bit of a journey. Most of his co-workers thought it was ‘adorable’ and delighted in teasing him about it, including Scott Lang, an American expat who’d been invaluable in helping him pin down some of the more uniquely American ingredients. Scott had had piped up as soon as Loki walked into the kitchen on Monday morning, “Hey man, how’s your girlfriend? She coping alright?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” The response was almost automatic at this point, so much so that he almost missed the second part of the question. Then it sank in and his head snapped up. “Why do you ask? Do you know why she wouldn’t be?”

“Well, I mean, it’s her first Thanksgiving away from the States, right? It can be kinda rough, I know I was hella homesick my first Thanksgiving here, and I didn’t even _like_ my home.”

“Oh my God, Scott, that’s probably it.” He rocked back on his heels, upset he’d not thought about the strange American holiday himself. "She’s been trying to hide it, but she’s felt glum for weeks now. I wish she’d said something. When is Thanksgiving anyway, it’s soon, yes?”

Scott looked up and to the right, and moved his lips a little, doing far more mental mathematics than seemed strictly necessary in order to figure out when a holiday fell. "November 28th this year. So this Thursday. Huh. Kinda snuck up on me.”

Loki did some mental mathematics of his own, while Scott nattered away about turkey. Something about his mum cooking it in a bag, so he must've heard wrong. In any case, he could probably take a day off, using the handy old "research" premise as a likely excuse. Planning the menu shouldn't be a challenge, but he suspected procuring some of the ingredients might be. 

As he continued to think on it though, he realized he was drawing a blank. Much as he was loathe to admit a gap in his nearly encyclopedic epicurean knowledge, he could only think of turkey as a dish associated with Thanksgiving. Scott was still - somehow - talking, despite Loki's complete silence for the last few minutes. For once, Loki appreciated that about the American, tuning in while Scott was at the end of what he gathered was a diatribe about his aunt Susan's "green bean casserole". 

"Sounds wretched, old chap. Old bean. Old friend." Loki found his arm swinging up and his hand delivering a punch to the other man's shoulder. Perhaps he was laying it on too thick. The way Scott's eyes narrowed were definitely a warning sign to tread carefully, lest he inadvertently trample into yet another embarrassing incident, giving the very loud man more ammunition for teasing. Loki doubled his nonchalance until he was literally checking the counters for dust. There was none, of course there wasn't, because he'd cleaned them himself yesterday. There was, however, a definite glimmer of a smile on Scott's face, and blast! He'd missed the mark. Out with it then, "Say, if one were to hypothetically plan one of these dinners… what sort of dishes would you include?”

Scott smirked at him. _Smirked._ “Hypothetically, huh? I guess if one were to _hypothetically_ plan a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner for one’s not-girlfriend, it would probably be a good idea to find out what’s the norm in her part of the country. There’s some universal standards like Turkey of course, and stuffing, green bean and sweet potato casseroles and pumpkin pie, but there’s also a lot of variation across the three million square miles of country. But if - _hypothetically -_ one had their not-girlfriend’s mother’s cookbook, one might just have an advantage. And if one had a generous, caring, benevolent coworker who has an idea of what to look for and is willing to help, one might just be able to pull it off. Hypothetically.” 

It was a plan that definitely qualified as a little bit sneaky. Loki quite liked those sorts of plans, but he was certain he could handle planning a stunning meal on his own with a bit of creativity and some luck. "Thanks. I think I have it handled. Hypothetically," he said turning to get to his work station ready for the day, before Scott decided to take up the conversational gauntlet again and smack him round the face with it some more. He had notes to decipher and an epic meal to plan. This was something he could do for Darcy that she’d never think to ask for herself. Something to hopefully ease her homesickness and keep her happy _here._ And no matter what Scott or anyone else said, she was one of the best friends he’d ever had and he’d rather chew off his right hand at the wrist than do anything to jeopardize that, regardless of any inconvenient sexual and/or romantic attraction on his part. He’d already lost one best friend that way and he’d be damned if he lost Darcy.

Several hours later he had a page of notes, listing riffs and improvements of dishes carefully selected from the notebook. Loki was rather proud of his work so far, the spin he'd put on the dishes. His list included complex, delicate arrangements that would utilize the depth and breadth of his skills, both technically and creatively. It was a masterpiece, if he might say so himself. He was enjoying a spot of tea while doing a final review of the list, when a hand swooped out of nowhere, and snatched it from him. He glared silently at Scott while the other man perused his painstakingly crafted menu, designed to tantalize the palate and titillate the senses. Loki fully expected accolades to be heaped upon him at any second. 

What he got was several snorts, a raised eyebrow, followed by a hearty disbelieving laugh.

Scott put the list down as if to get it away from him as quickly as possible, and wiped under his eyes. "No," he said succinctly. "Just," he paused as if searching for additional words, "no."

Loki had only been so offended once before in his life: when a reviewer from the Times had called his veal demi-glace oversalted. The nerve of the man! Here was a menu he'd poured his very soul into, and the man laughed? He started plotting Scott's demise immediately. 

A moment later Scott shoved his mobile in front of Loki's face. Oh joy, a picture of the man's daughter smiling brightly filled the screen. Scott swiped to show another picture and another each one featuring his daughters nearly manic grin, and in each she was younger and younger until she was just a baby held in the arms of a beaming blonde woman. 

Loki glanced at Scott, who'd returned the phone to his pocket. "That," the smaller man said decisively, "is Thanksgiving. Let me help you. It shouldn't be complicated and "chef"-y. It's about traditions and family. Being grateful for another year with those you love." He tapped the cover of Darcy's mum's notebook. "Come on. We'll come up with something that'll make her smile like Cassie in those pictures. We just have to kiss it," Scott said. 

"That's disgusting," muttered Loki, thinking particularly dark thoughts about barmy Americans and their unsophisticated palates. 

"No, I mean, my God you Brits are so aggravating sometimes. _Kiss it_. Keep It Simple, Stupid," Scott said, as if that explained anything at all. The man must have seen something of Loki’s mood on his face though, and kept talking. “Look. I’m not saying that the menu you wrote up is a bad meal, it’s just not right for what you’re trying to do. She’d prob’ly still appreciate the effort, but haute cuisine does not do much for homesickness unless you grew up with a silver spoon up your ass. If her mom died when she was little then she probably only barely remembers this food, but what she does remember is that it was The Best. So your best bet is to try and get as close to her mom’s original recipes as you can. That’s what’s gonna make the biggest impact. Now. How many people are you planning to feed, cause that’s gonna change what all you put on the table.”

“I…”

“Oh jeeze. You weren’t planning on inviting anyone. Dude. A two person Thanksgiving is either lonely or romantic- there is no middle ground, and since you’re the one who keeps saying she’s not your girlfriend, you’re gonna wanna start calling people ASAP.”

* * *

***

By the morning of Thanksgiving day, Darcy was perfectly miserable. Loki had pretty much vanished on her all week, saying something had come up last minute at work, and she’d barely even seen him in passing. He said he’d make it up to her, something about all the profiteroles she could eat over the weekend, but that didn’t quite make up for missing him all week. She’d tried reaching out to some of her other friends, calling to see if anyone would be interested in going out for dinner Thursday night, but no one was interested.

She was an unloved hunchback, and this apartment was her belfry. She would die alone in England, and since she apparently had no friends, no one would find her body for weeks. Darcy could imagine the headlines. "Lonely American Found Dead in Her Flat After 4 Weeks: Didn't Even Have a Cat to Feast on Her Corpse". She'd start crying again, except she didn't have the energy for it. Taking the day off had been a monumentally stupid idea. Darcy wondered if it would be weird if she showed up for work, but in the end was defeated by her pile of laundry. She missed the Wash-Dry-Fold service at her old laundromat, the way her t shirts were so crisply folded and her pants hung so perfectly on the hangers. Everything was so _bloody_ expensive in London, she'd had to resort to washing her own clothes, or _not_ actually washing them, as the case was. Oh god. She was contemplating doing _laundry_ on Thanksgiving. What had her life even become?

Because the abject Sad of doing laundry on Thanksgiving was Too Much to consider, Darcy braved the chill November bluster of outside, wearing jeans that she'd only worn twice since they'd been washed, in search of a good cup of coffee she hadn't had to make herself. 

There was always a crowd at the place around the corner, and facing that was unappealing. She'd been meaning to explore more of her new home, but there had always been reasons not to. Though Loki had certainly dragged her out on excursions, his idea of an adventure tended to be something like visiting docks at the crack of dawn looking for fish or hunting down out-of-the-way markets in search of exotic fruits and vegetables. Which, don't get her wrong, had been fun in it's own way, but -

She wanted to see museums. Actual art. Maybe peruse a used bookstore or two. Or all of them, and fill her apartment with books. She wanted to go to Harrod's, even if it was terribly crowded and extremely touristy. Armed with her trusty, fully charged phone and a pair of comfortable shoes, Darcy set forth, a certain sort of nervous excitement bubbling in her stomach. 

Darcy's feet hurt a considerable amount by the time she'd made it to Harrod's. Nonetheless, her step was light when she entered the building. It was Too Much, all the floors of expensive and sometimes exquisite merchandise. She found a sparkling dress that called to the Magpie in her soul, fingers caressing the sequins reverently. She actually choked when she saw the price on the discreet tag, recoiling physically. It was worth more than her living room set and mattress and every single article of clothing she owned. Shaking her head, she made her way to the cafe, intent on forgetting about the dress and the towering stilettos that would have been perfect with it over yet another cup of coffee, and possibly a tasty pastry of some sort. 

Sitting for the first time in what felt like hours, Darcy sipped at her overpriced coffee and checked her phone. It took her by surprise that it was after 4:30, and that she had several missed calls and not a few texts. All from Loki. Her heart did a funny little two step in her chest, and she felt heat rising in her cheeks. What that man did to her seemingly without any effort whatsoever should really have been criminal. Then the panic set in, because the reason he'd been trying to reach her for the last hour and a half was to invite her out. 

"Sorry again about how busy I've been this week. I've managed to clear up a couple of hours this evening, though. If you swing by the test kitchen around 6 tonight, I'll get you dinner. My treat."

She was not wearing clothes she wanted him to see her in, her hair had gotten damp and dried on its own not once, not twice, but three different times today. She'd scrubbed most of her very minimal makeup off already, and there were no clean clothes in her apartment. Darcy decided that she didn't have time to hyperventilate or even indulging in further useless panic. A quick perusal of Google found a Guess across the street. While she could have found the perfect outfit at Harrod's, it wouldn't have been perfect for her rather strict budget. 

A very difficult twenty minutes later, she was on what she was mostly sure was the tube home. If she was lucky, it was on time, and she'd make it home by 5:30, and then if she didn't take too long getting ready she might be able to start running, well, briskly walking towards the test kitchen before 6. 

It wasn't until she dropped wearily into her seat on the tube that it occurred to her that it might be a good idea to text Loki back to let him know she was actually coming. And, y'know, not dead. 

She was still kinda trying to catch her breath after the mad dash to the tube, so texting it was. 

_Hey Loki_

_Sorry it took me so long to get back to you_

_Was out shopping and didn't hear the phone_

_Might be few mins late but I'll def be there_

The typing bubbles popped up on his side literally seconds after she sent the message staying active for several seconds, then disappearing without anything sent, then starting up again a second later. That cycle repeats a few more times before she finally gets a reply.

_Darcy, it’s fine if you’re late, I’m just glad you’re okay_

_I should have called sooner. I’ll see you in a bit._

With a sigh of relief, she leans back in the seat. She’s got another ten minutes before her stop to catch her breath. The next hour is gonna be a bitch, but it’s worth it to spend the time with Loki. The free food was not an insignificant incentive either.

***

* * *

She was washed, dressed and out of the door before she had time to doubt everything she'd put on and how she'd done her hair. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around and change, but Darcy didn't want to be later than she already was. Maybe the cranberry red sweater looked less low cut than she thought it did. At least the black jeans were relatively comfortable, though she'd have preferred to wash them before actually wearing them. And she was thinking entirely too much about clothes, and not enough about being sparkling and witty. 

It was, at least, a small mercy that Loki worked nearby. She made it to the building about a quarter past six, a warm feeling bubbling up inside when she spotted him stepping outside to meet her. 

“Hey, Lokes, sorry I’m late. So where are we going, and…” She looked him over, noting something odd. “Where’s your coat?” 

He just smiled at her, that stupid sunshiney, eye-crinkling smile that made her stomach do cartwheels. “Come on up, there’s something I want to show you.”

She let herself be pulled into the building and up to the fourth floor where the meeting rooms and offices were. He took her coat as they passed his office door, and led her off toward one of the big conference rooms. Something nearby smell absolutely amazing, but that wasn’t particularly unusual here. As they got closer she could hear the steady chatter of pleasant small talk between several small groups of people, and then a bright laugh that she recognized as her friend Wanda from work. Even as she looked askance at him, Loki pulled open the frosted glass door onto room filled to the brim with friends and coworkers, including most of the chefs with the food magazine Loki worked for, all crowded around a table piled high with a goddamn Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving feast. 

She was _not going to cry._ Not going to cry. Much. A few stray tears leaked out and maybe her laugh almost started out like a sob, but, "Oh my god you guys!" She punched Loki in the vicinity of his shoulder, so she wouldn't end up throwing herself at him lips first. "You jerk! I can't believe you didn't tell me about this. Y'know. Before now. Wow!" Darcy struggled a bit with further inappropriate impulses before allowing herself to throw her arms around his chest to hug him as tight as she could. He hugged her back a moment before sheepishly pulling away.

“Yes, well, in retrospect I probably should have said _something_ before today. I really am sorry you had to rush so badly to get here. You look lovely though.”

A voice piped up from the other side of the room. “I _told_ him not to leave it to the last minute, but Romeo here insisted on keeping it all hush hush.”

Loki’s response was immediate.

“Shut up, Scott.” 

The man in question gasped dramatically, putting a scandalized hand over his heart. “Is this how you treat the man who saved Thanksgiving?”

Loki scowled at him. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, but yes,” he conceded, turning to address Darcy, “Scott was a tremendous help with the menu, and in fact he was the one who reminded me that the holiday was coming up and that it might be difficult for you, when all you would say was that you were ‘fine’.”

“I was _trying_ to be fine, I just wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I can't believe you did all of this. It smells incredible!" Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, reminding Darcy that all she'd really had to eat that day was a pastry. Which it turned out, was quite fortuitous, considering the mountains of food in front of her. 

Loki smiled, "Shall we?"

“Hell yes.”

They sat in the middle of the long table on opposite sides so that other friends could crowd in around them, and started passing plates around to be filled with heaping helpings of her mother’s best Thanksgiving dishes, faithfully recreated by a kitchen full of gourmet chefs who happily narrated what all they’d done to help contribute to the amazing meal. 

As she looked over the gorgeous, scrumptious, _perfect_ feast on the table, though, her eyes came to rest on the man who had put it all together - for her- and she knew what she was truly thankful for. And with the first bite of a perfectly cooked turkey that tasted like every good memory of holidays with her mom, it hit her like a sack of bricks. She _loved_ him. Darcy Lewis, was completely, utterly, irrevocably in love with Loki Odinson. Her best friend. Fuck.

* * *

***

Of course, that was only the catalyst. The fateful joke came that weekend over leftovers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leftovers can be wonderful things. Surprise visits from family can be less so.

Thanksgiving had been surreal in the best possible way. Well, mostly.

She’d eaten enough to wish she’d bought a size up in jeans, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t the only one at the table to have unbuttoned their pants discreetly, so she didn’t regret a single bite. As a bonus, all that eating had kept her mouth busy, so she only had one major moment of not-so-awesome surreality in which she accidentally confessed her love for Loki. 

Normally, that wouldn't have been an issue; it would've been completely ordinary for Darcy to declare her undying love at the drop of perfect gravy. In this case, in front of witnesses, it suddenly became awkward. She’d managed to play it off - “ _I love you...r mashed potatoes.” -_ but it had been too close of a call, and she’d gotten the side eye from a couple of other friends that made it clear that they weren’t buying her cover up. 

Of course, the mashed potato comment had prompted Jemma, one of Loki's other co-workers, to speak up and claim the 'mash' as her creation. That in turn had all the other chefs chiming in to say what they'd worked on, and prompting a quizzical eyebrow raising in Loki's direction. Which turned out to be a mistake because he got up and gently tugged her out of her seat and back outside the door of the conference room for a quiet aside. Alone.

She was so busy trying to keep from doing something stupid - like lauch herself at him mouth first - that she barely registered his sheepish explanation of how word had gotten around the kitchen about his project, and people kept nosing in and taking over various dishes until nearly all of the kitchen was working on her Thanksgiving dinner, and they'd wound up having to pitch it as a big feature for the magazine to justify the time, and he'd wanted to ask her permission but didn't want to ruin the surprise, and he hoped she didn't mind that at least some of her mother recipies would be published in it. When he'd finished his rambling spiel, it took Darcy several minutes to actually process what all he'd said, while Loki's face grew increasingly stressed. 

"No!" she'd blurted like an idiot when his words finally clicked, and then had to scramble to clarify because Loki looked like he was about to have a panic attack. "I mean, no, I don't mind. It's fine," her voice trailed off as she chanced a quick look at the face she would never admit was increasingly precious to her, "It's all totally worth it."

His answering smile lit up the hallway, or maybe just her insides, and she was helpless to do anything but smile back dumbly. When they reentered the conference room, dishes were being cleared and the leftovers distributed to interested parties. Loki claimed the turkey carcass with more glee than a pile of bones could possibly deserve, leaving Darcy a bit mystified at his selection when there were other foodstuffs that seemed more worthy of his reaction, but then he'd proven himself something of a mystery in general.

* * *

Saturday rolled around without further contact from Loki, something Darcy told herself quite sternly did not matter in the slightest. The grateful texts she sent and (only slightly gushing) voicemail she left that went unanswered were truly no reason to worry. Loki was a grown man, with a life that didn't revolve exclusively around her, and that was _ok._ Really it was. The metaphorical ants she felt crawling around in her metaphorical pants were in no way related to his lack of response. 

He lived right down the hall. If she was really worried she could go knock on his door. But she wouldn’t, because that was something a needy, clingy girlfriend would do and even if they _were_ dating _which they weren’t_ she’d rather stab herself in the foot than be one of _those_ girlfriends. Or clingy, needy platonic friends cause, ya’ know, they weren’t romantically involved no matter what her traitorous heart might say. She ran a hand down her face and then she rolled over groaned very loudly into her pillow. 

Coffee. She'd run around the corner and grab a cup of coffee, and she was not at all going to check her phone even once.

* * *

Meanwhile,down the hall, Loki was spending his Saturday morning dead asleep. Friday had been a small scale judgement day at work, as all the prep and cooking of the week preceding had to be organized into articles and the somewhat hurried photography sorted where it needed to be, in addition to everyone scrambling to get back on top of all their _actual_ assignments that they’d cheerfully suspended for the sake of his little project. He’d also had to find time to finish out his _other_ special project.

In a way, he was grateful for the crush of work stealing all of his time and attention for the day because it meant he had no time to despair over the fact that he was officially, undeniably head over heels in love with his best friend. 

There was a moment of panic upon waking and seeing that it was past noon, bolting out of bed and scrambling for the kitchen, but by the grace of some benevolent deity and years of muscle memory, he managed to get the turkey carcass prepped, in the pot, and cooking down by half past. If he wanted to be able to have it ready in time to ask Darcy over for dinner he really couldn’t have started any later. And he needed to see her, rather desperately, but he couldn’t possibly bring himself to seek her out without a solid, justifiable reason to do so. Not after Thursday night. He'd worked himself into a complete emotional frenzy when he’d told her about the magazine article and he’d misunderstood her response where he’d been ready to quit on the spot if it would make things right again. He’d been relieved of course when she clarified, but it couldn’t erase his initial reaction, or the realization that there was very little he would not do for this woman because he was completely in love with her. And that was terrifying. 

He’d already tried making a romantic relationship out of a friendship, having proposed to his childhood best friend shortly out of culinary school, but that relationship had imploded along with the rest of his rest of his life at that time. After Sigyn had left he’d promised himself he’d never let himself fuck up a friendship like that again, but here he was older and more experienced but obviously not the least bit wiser. 

The electric kettle chirped it’s readiness, breaking him out of his reverie. The familiar motions of making his morning tea helped to settle his nerves and by the time it was ready he’d more or less managed to tie a knot around his inconvenient yearning and settled in to make the roux.

It wasn't exactly rocket science, or making mille-feuille, but it wasn't something he was prepared to take lightly. He couldn't even say he was looking to create perfection, what he wanted was that ineffable something that warmed and soothed, something that felt intimate and comforting. Loki stirred the flour and butter that was slowly browning in the pan and contemplated how to word the invitation. A one-handed-shuffle ensued as he dug his phone out of his back pocket and unlocked the screen. There were several unread texts, and even a voicemail from her, which led to a spiral of guilt. He'd have to apologize for not responding sooner, wouldn't he? 

_I'm so sorry for not getting back with you sooner. Was swamped at work yesterday. Join me for dinner at mine 7ish?_

He sent the text, and immediately wondered if it was enough, if it was too much or too little. That unnerving uncertainty was exactly why he'd avoided romantic entanglements for so long. Still, he has high hopes. Hopes that very much _did not_ include kissing her until they're both breathless, no matter what his heart or libido might say, but that start at a simple bowl of gumbo. Naturally, it's a recipe from her mother's notebook, and clearly one that had been referred to quite often, going by the stains on the paper. The odd thing about it is how sparse the list of ingredients are, how little there was in the way of instructions. Much like his life, he felt as though he had to muddle his way through the entire thing, guessing and brazening his way to the end result, hoping for the best. 

Finally, he had time to step away for a bit after putting the rest of the ingredients in the pot. He realized his kitchen had become something of a war zone, that he'd managed to use more pans than he'd intended. Washing dishes was something he'd felt was beneath him in his other life, but had become a ritual that was therapeutic now, a meditative focus that grounded him in the here and now. The feeling of the hot water on his hands, the scrape of the scrubbing pad against the metal, glass and ceramic of the dishes, the smell of the soap, all of it served to slow his thoughts and separate him from his anxieties. 

His phone chimed at him when he was scrubbing up the last of the pans, and as much as he wanted to drop everything and race to see what her answer was, he forced himself to keep steady and finish what he was doing first. It would benefit no one if he started acting like a schoolboy with his first crush, regardless of the presence or lack of spectators. Only when the pan was clean and his hands were dry did he let himself check his messages. 

_As long as it’s not another surprise shindig that I can’t wear sweats to._

He smiles happily at the sentence, relieved to see her so easily snarking at him. Even with all her effusive gratitude over the past couple of days there had been a quiet fear that she’d somehow noticed his epiphany and that it would make things awkward between them. But it seemed that fear was quite unfounded.

_No parties, I promise. Just you, me and food._

His phone chimed back at him almost instantly.

_Sweet. I’ll be there with bells on._

* * *

“Shit. Shit shit shitshitshitshits _hitshit.“_

She’d managed to keep her promise to herself and hadn’t looked once at her phone the entire time she was in the coffee shop. Granted, it would have been a trick to look at it, as she’d accidently left it at home, but hey, she stayed and finished her coffee even after realizing she didn’t have it on her. The fact that she practically dove for the thing the second she made it through her front door was completely irrelevant thankyouverymuch.

And Lo and Behold, Miracle of Miracles, Loki had finally answered. He was asking her over for dinner. Again. 

She’d spent almost ten minutes trying not to freak out while repeatedly typing out a response and then frantically deleting whatever gibberish she had spouted. Finally she’d smacked herself upside the head and settled on something appropriately snarky and casual.

That had been almost three hours ago and present Darcy was ready to shoot past Darcy, because after dropping that line about coming in sweats she’d actually started trying to figure out what she was going to wear over there (obviously, sweats were not _actually_ an option) and now her bedroom looked like a tornado had hit it. A shower had delayed the freak out, but she’d been stuck in her robe for almost three hours and her skin probably had permanent terri impressions now. God, she was turning into a total cliche over this. Just then the alarm she’d set on her phone informed her that it was 6:45 and she had officially run out of time for this bullshit. This was stupid. Loki had already _seen_ her in sweats before, and she was _not_ going to get weird about it now. She grabbed a pair of yoga pants off the bed and snagged an oversize cheshire cat shirt and a light cardigan. 

Once she was fully clothed she pulled her hair up in a bun, threw on some lip gloss and eyeliner, and steered herself out the door and down the hall. 

He was opening the door almost as soon as she knocked, and she caught her breath because looking like he did certainly violated some sort of code of decency. Not that what he was wearing was in any way indecent, but the way his customary black button down was pushed up at the sleeves, the fit of his jeans, the way his hair was escaping his usually ever-so tidy ponytail, the faint blush on his cheeks and that slightly crooked grin were … terrible for her self control and delicate equilibrium. If he had been literally anyone else, she'd have thrown herself at him and begged for him to take her right there. 

As it was, he's _Loki_. She can't. She will not. She in no way has the luxury of fucking up the beautiful friendship she enjoys so much just because he looks like all of her deepest fantasies come to life. 

Instead, she smiled and said, "Hey," like it didn't bother her at all he looked like that, and was so nice and fucking decent. She didn't sniff his throat when he hugged her, because she's not a weirdo with boundary issues. She absolutely did not stare at his round, tight ass as he led her inside his very familiar apartment. Whatever he was making for dinner smelled divine, and that's something totally normal to focus on. So she did, "What's on the menu tonight?" 

He grinned, and it made her heart do a slow somersault in her chest, but she was almost used to that by now, so she didn't have to ask him to repeat himself when he said, "If I told you it's a surprise, would you do me bodily harm?"

In fact, she even managed to roll her eyes and say, "Not this again," in a properly aggrieved tone of voice. 

He chuckled, "No guests this time, promise. Just you and me enjoying some music and some comfort food. Trust me?"

_She does, of course she does_.

Darcy trusted him so fucking much. All sorts of feelings welled up like a tide, and she could have burst from it, from how much she had to leave unsaid, so she nodded, because if she spoke might accidentally reveal that she didn't trust herself. Not around him. This had clearly been a truly awful idea, coming over when all she'd been doing for days was moon after him. 

Loki smacked his forehead and got up abruptly, "Wine. I meant to ask, would you like some wine? Have a new case from this lovely little place in Italy, absolutely smashing stuff." He kept on, talking about the notes of currant and blackberries, and Darcy could listen to him ramble about wine for days. 

She accepted the elegant crystal wine glass from him, and nearly groaned at the delicious flavor of the wine. Previously, her taste in wine had run to the cheap, bottle-not-necessary sort of wine. Loki had ruined this for her, utterly and completely. The eager, curious look on his face as he waited for her opinion was adorable in a way she was unprepared for, despite how familiar it was. "'S good," she said, trying and failing to come up with a witty follow up. 

The smile he gave in response was pleased, "It'll pair wonderfully with dinner, as well. Which should be-," a timer dinged, and now that smile included DIMPLES, which honestly, just shoot her and put her out of her misery already, "just about done. Shall we?" 

Darcy took a deep breath and released those inconvenient amorous feelings into the universe. It wasn't going to happen between them, and that was perfectly fine, because just being his friend was enough. More than enough. It was perfection. 

Emotions somewhat back on an even keel, she followed him to the kitchen and practically swooned when he opened the pot and the most incredible smell was released. It smelled like her childhood, like home, like a hug and all the good, hopeful things in the world, and she blinked to clear tears from her eyes. With the same sort of precise care he showed when plating something incredibly complex, he scooped rice from the previously unnoticed rice cooker into wide bowls, and ladled gumbo from the aforementioned pot over top of it.

She plunked herself down at one of the places set at the table, giving an undignified little wiggle of excitement as the gumbo was set down in front of her. The sixty seconds it took for Loki to place his own bowl and seat himself across from her felt like an absolute eternity but she was not about to start eating without him like an absolute heathen. She still had the first bite in her mouth before he’d gotten around to picking up his spoon, and she had half a second to register his amused chuckling before the taste registered. It was like heaven on her tongue; a symphony of spice and savory roux, the velvet texture of the broth sliding her straight into her happy place. “Oh my god, Loki, this is the best thing ever. Marry me.”

This was not the first time that Darcy had proposed to Loki over his cooking. The first time had been over his legendary macarons. She’d groaned out a proposal almost identical to the one she’d just babbled and Loki had blinked at her in shock before she’d continued on to state that she’d happily marry anyone who cooked like that, and he’d just laughed and said that she didn’t need to marry him to get him to cook for her.

It had become something of a running joke between them after that. Loki would feed her something extraordinary and Darcy would ask him to marry her so that she could eat it forever. After the first couple of times Loki had started playing along and ‘accepting’ the proposals in the same vein that they were given - as a Joke.

“But of course, my dear, someone has to keep you fed.”

It was such a casual, ordinary thing for them that Darcy let herself breathe an internal sigh of relief. Everything was going to be just fine between them.

* * *

Across the table, Loki was equally relieved at the easy banter. For all of five seconds before the storm broke.

“BROTHER!!! You _have_ been holding out on us!” a voice boomed from the front of the room.

Loki’s head snapped up to see Thor’s broad frame filling the doorway and the warm glow of contentment he’d been settling into blew away like a balloon in a thunderstorm. 

“Loki! What the hell, you said it was just going to be us tonight!” 

“Believe me, Darcy this is every bit as much a surprise to me as it is to you.” In the days and weeks to come Loki reflected that that might not have been the best way to answer, as true as it was, because Thor took it as confirmation of the idea that he’d gotten on seeing them together. 

“Really Loki,” he rumbled, “you’re getting engaged and haven’t even brought her to meet your family yet? I know we’ve had our differences, but this is taking it a bit far now. Have you even told mother?”

Loki could only gape at his erstwhile brother as his brain scrambled to try and make sense of what Thor was saying.

“From the look on your face, I can tell that you have not. No matter!" he declared, as he stomped a path through Loki's apartment, probably looking for evidence of other perceived misdeeds. "It’s good I came by when I did. I won’t be letting you shut us out of this as well. I’ll tell her myself," with his customary flair for the dramatics, Thor punctuated this statement with his index finger raised in the air, which he then leveled at Loki. "Don’t think I’m letting you get off easy on this one.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left, vanishing as quickly as he’d come, if a good deal more loudly, and Loki and Darcy were left sitting shell shocked at the table. 

Darcy found her voice first. “Dude. Who.. what the hell was that?”

“That,” Loki sighed, “was my brother.”

“Wait, _that_ was Thor? Huh. I mean, I know you said you guys were nothing alike but he’s still not at all what I was expecting. Also, what the fuck was he talking about?”

“Honestly, Darcy, I have no idea. I’ll call him later and try and see what he was on about but if you don’t mind I’d just as soon finish dinner. Try and salvage the evening?” He tried to keep his sudden, complete exhaustion that was par for the course after dealing with Thor from seeping into his voice, but he could tell he wasn’t fooling Darcy with it. Still, she smiled back warmly at him as she replied.

“Salvage? Dude, you made me gumbo. My mom’s gumbo. I had forgotten about it until now, and you brought it back to me. It’s gonna take a lot more than annoying relatives to make that into something in need of salvaging. C’mon. Let’s eat.”

Gods he loved this woman.

They finished the meal together, the awkwardness of Thor’s intrusion (if this was how Thor handled having a spare key, Loki was getting the locks changed tomorrow) melting away under the warmth of easy banter and good company. A second bottle of wine certainly didn’t hurt either. 

At the end of the night, after a sweet pudding dessert and three episodes of Doctor Who, they parted company perfectly content with themselves, having managed to put Thor’s strange behavior out of their minds entirely.

The shoe had dropped hard by the next morning when Darcy finally checked her phone.


End file.
